


The Tragedy Of The Atkinson Brothers (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [84]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Suicide, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 12:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10944636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock helps out an old college friend, and he and John have their first encounter with a new and rather unpleasant sergeant. Not their last.





	The Tragedy Of The Atkinson Brothers (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2009lionsheaslip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2009lionsheaslip/gifts).



> Also mentioned elsewhere as 'the Trincomalee case'.

Foreword: This case only became available for publication following a letter I received towards the end of the Great War from a Mr. Jameson Monroe in the United States. Mr. Monroe is the son of Mr. Abanezer Monroe and Mrs. Lily Monroe, née Atkinson, that lady being the sister of the brothers in this tragic tale. Although for reasons which will become obvious at the end of the story I could not publish it at the time, Mr. Monroe used his letter to urge me so to do, since both his parents had passed on. He believed - and I concur with him in that belief - that society would take a kinder view of the tragic events at “Trincomalee” than it might have done three decades ago.

+~+~+

Amongst the many letters waiting for me on our return from our travels was one from the “Strand” magazine asking when (or if) I would be producing more works concerning 'my good friend Mr. Holmes'. I smiled at the reference and looked across at the scruff now imbibing coffee as if his life depended on it; he was now so much more. I had previously dispatched a précis of our adventure with Mr. James Collins ("The Greek interpreter") to the magazine, and I now determined to get the actual work finished as soon as possible. Thanks to my friend's great generosity I still had two more weeks off from the surgery, and resolved to spend them writing.

The first week passed uneventfully, ending with the aforementioned 'problems' of Mr. Gaylord Holmes which he had fully brought on himself by crossing his lethal younger sibling. Sherlock seemed content to step back from his work for a moment, and often times I would catch him looking across at me as I wrote furiously at my table, smiling softly. I was so lucky to have this man in my life, and better, to know that he would always be there. I could not know, in those happy times, that we had little more than three years before he would be torn from me in the most painful way imaginable.

+~+~+

At the start of the second week, Mrs. Harvelle's delicious breakfast was accompanied with an early morning telegram. Sherlock frowned as he read it.

“Not a case already?” I said, trying not to sound as if I was complaining (even though I was). “We are barely in through the door!”

“It is from my old tutor at Tarleton, Inias Atkinson”, he said, looking worried. “He says that he knows we are probably still out of the country, but that he desperately needs my help.”

I had no way of knowing this at the time, but a pattern was about to be set in which my friend was to be involved in one case after another without a break. At the time, I could only see that this letter meant a lot to him, and that he was torn between going to his friend’s aid, or staying with me for the rest of my time off. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to do the decent thing. Because that was what friends did.

“Let us see if the ever-efficient Mrs. Harvelle can be persuaded to pack us some sandwiches”, I said with a forced smile, “and then we can go to…. where does your friend live?”

I fervently prayed it was not in some dark, distant part of the kingdom, and could barely suppress my relief when he answered, “St. John’s Wood.” Only a short cab ride, thank the Lord. He smiled at me in gratitude.

+~+~+

St. John’s Wood was (and still is) one of the better areas of London, and the Atkinsons’ house, “Trincomalee”, was in turn in one of its better areas, each house along Abbey Wood Close possessing its own set of copious grounds. I felt a little surprised that a Cambridge tutor should be able to afford such luxury.

“The family made their money in tea”, Sherlock explained as we walked up the long drive. “On the island of Ceylon off India, hence the house name. My tutor is a younger twin; his parents died a few years ago, and his brother Ion inherited the house. They live there with their sister Lily who, if I recall, is some years younger than them, but I believe that she is away visiting the United States at the moment.”

It was a huge place, if compact. The builders had gone for three storeys in a solid block, presumably to increase the already sizeable garden still further. Sherlock’s and my attentions were immediately drawn to the ominous black wreath on the huge front door. That did not bode well.

A maid admitted us, and we were showed into a generous-sized waiting-room. We had not long to wait before she returned, and bade us follow. We went upstairs to what turned out to be a study, and were ushered into the presence of, judging by my friend's smile, Mr. Inias Atkinson. The man was about forty-five years of age, slender of build and dressed in mourning-clothes. His hair was mostly grey, and his face was lined with worry. He pointedly waited for the maid to withdraw before speaking, and I would always remember his first words.

“My dearest friend, my best student”, he said in a low, pleasant voice. “I need your help with a murder.”

+~+~+

It was some little time later. Sherlock, Mr. Atkinson and I had adjourned to the lounge whence our host had pointedly locked the door. He sat down heavily in one of the large fireside chairs. His former student sat opposite him, and I took a chair at the table. It was uncannily similar to our regular arrangement at Baker Street.

“Ion is dead”, Mr. Atkinson said mournfully.

To my surprise Sherlock reached across and took the older man’s hand. My friend was not the most tactile of people, so this gesture was unusual. 

“And there are problems, or you would not have summoned me”, Sherlock said gently. Our host nodded. 

“He died three days ago”, he said. He hesitated before going on. “A burglar broke into the house close by his room, and he surprised them. He was shot.”

There was something distinctly odd about the man’s voice, I thought. He was describing the death of his brother, yet his voice seemed almost unnaturally steady.

“I think that you had better start right at the beginning”, Sherlock said. “Clearly there is a lot to this story.”

Our host nodded, took a large gulp of his drink, and began.

“Ion did a lot of volunteer work for the local community”, he explained, “in and around the Wood. Our father left all the money to him, but he trusted – correctly, of course – that Ion would treat me and Lily fairly. Neither of us had to work, and as I told you late last year, she decided to spend a year in the United States, starting last September. I had however always aspired to become a teacher, and I was fortunate enough to be accepted on a training course, eventually securing my position at Tarleton just three years before you appeared on the scene, Sherlock.”

I smiled inwardly as I remembered student Sherlock at Tarleton, meeting me for the second time over two dead bodies whose murders he solved in a matter of hours. Our second adventure together, now some thirteen years into the past. At least he had found a good friend in his time there.

“Ion had been ill of late, so I took a year’s leave to come and stay with him”, our host continued. “He was down for some months, but had rallied of late. I had thought that things were finally starting to come right again – and then this!”

Sherlock still had hold of the man’s hands, and he now reached forward and actually hugged him. It struck me for some reason at that point that Inias Atkinson was barely ten years older than his student. I tensed, but said nothing.

“Last Friday was when it all happened”, our host went on, smiling gratefully at his former student. “I had gone to lunch with some friends; I did not want to go, but Ion insisted, even though he was feeling sick again. I hurried back as quickly as I could, and went upstairs to get changed before seeing him.”

He gulped before pulling himself together.

“That was when it must have happened”, he said. “I was still in my room when I heard the shot. I hurried to Ion’s room, but the door was blocked. Whoever had broken in must have pushed the heavy dresser next to the door across to frustrate entry. Fortunately two of the footmen arrived, and with their help I was able to push the door open….”

“Could you not use a connecting door from an adjoining room?” Sherlock asked. The man blushed.

“In the heat of the moment, I did not think of that”, he admitted ruefully. “Besides, James and John came in seconds and we had got the door partially open with our first push, so we were delayed by no more than a minute at most. We found poor Ion dead, a single bullet-wound to the head.”

“So the burglar shot him?” I asked.

“Indeed”, our host said. “It was a tragedy, and I was heartbroken – but things were about to get so much worse.”

“How could they get worse?” I asked in wonder. Mr. Atkinson hesitated.

“Have either of you heard of a Sergeant Adam-Henry Bartholomew?” he asked.

Sherlock pursed his lips distastefully.

“Most regrettably, I have”, he said, his voice unusually cold. 

I looked at him in surprise. Like me, Sherlock did not rate the capital's police service very highly, but open dislike was rare.

“He was a constable under Henriksen when our Dutch colleague was at his first station, close by my parents' house”, Sherlock explained. “There were two incidents when Victor suspected him of fixing evidence to secure convictions, and a further one when a case that the sergeant was building against someone collapsed due to a piece of evidence going missing from a police locker-room. Constable Bartholomew was suspected in all three cases, but nothing could be proven. I suspect that Victor arranged his transfer away to get rid of him; the man's promotion must have come later. I did not know that the police service was that desperate.”

“He has gotten his teeth into poor Ion’s murder”, Mr. Atkinson said, clearly angered. “He is convinced that it is suicide, for some reason. He clearly thinks that if he can prove it, it will be a great feather in his cap, and possibly a stepping-stone to his next promotion.”

“Having made the gross error of letting him get this far, the Metropolitan Police Service needs to be spared that particular calamity”, Sherlock said firmly.

“Why does he think that?” I asked. “If you do not mind me asking, of course.”

“Not at all, doctor”, our host smiled. “It is, I’m afraid, what our Italians friends call a vendetta. Ion worked as a volunteer on the Police Board, and he was against Mr. Bartholomew’s promotion. He was outvoted, but the man very evidently held a grudge against us thereafter. It is quite impossible anyway; as I am sure you know, a gun fired at close range leaves tell-tale scorch marks, and there were none on poor Ion’s body. The doctor who examined him confirmed this, much to the sergeant's displeasure. His own police doctor telling him exactly the same was also not well-received, or so a member of the Board told me.”

“Has he been back here since the day of the murder?” I asked.

“Every day!” our host sighed. 

“And he has called today?” Sherlock asked.

“No. He usually comes between three and four o’clock.”

I glanced at the old grandfather clock, ticking sonorously away to itself in the corner of the room. Five minutes to three.

“We must make good use of the time that we have”, Sherlock said. “Do you know if Sergeant Bartholomew found traces of a burglar, or any signs of forced entry?”

“He said that the window to my brother’s room had not been forced”, Mr. Atkinson admitted. “But then we always opened the double window at the end of the corridor on warm days, to air the building, so the thief could easily have got through there.”

Sherlock looked at him strangely for some reason.

“We must start with the scene of the crime”, he said. “Will you show it to us, please?”

+~+~+

The late Mr. Ion Atkinson’s room lay on the second floor, and was a typical gentleman’s study. Sherlock frowned when he saw it.

“There was only one shot fired?” Sherlock asked.

“I only heard one”, Mr. Atkinson said. “So did the maid who was directly beneath the room at the time. Is that important?”

“Then the killer was an excellent shot”, Sherlock muttered. 

For some reason, that remark seemed to make our host uncomfortable. I wondered why.

“What time did the killing take place?” Sherlock asked.

“Four thirty-six”, our host answered promptly. We both looked at him in surprise. “It was sixminutes after I returned; the grandfather clock was striking the half-hour as I came through the door, and timed my subsequent actions later.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“What rooms adjoin this one?” he asked. “Both sides, and above and below.”

“Ion’s bedroom is through there”, Mr. Atkinson said, pointing to one side”, “and the other side leads to a small lavatory. The bedroom is accessible from the main corridor, whilst the lavatory, for obvious reasons, is not. My dear brother was quite possessive about his bedroom, which may be why I did not think to access the room that way in the heat of the moment.”

Sherlock poked his head through the lavatory door, but quickly withdrew it. 

“Only a small window”, he said, sounding disappointed. He crossed to the other door and looked into the bedroom, and this time there was a smile on his features when he drew back.”

“Above is just the attic, to which both Ion and I have the only keys”, Mr. Atkinson explained. “The door on the far side of his bedroom leads up to the attic....”

“Does the attic have a window?” Sherlock interrupted. Our host looked surprised.

“No, but there is a skylight, through which the roof can be reached”, he said. “Both rooms are more or less above the smoking-room, where the maid was cleaning. Neither of us smoked, so we rarely use it.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“I presume that the odious Sergeant Bartholomew has examined this room?” he asked. 

“Very thoroughly”, our host said bitterly. “Three times.”

“Were you with him each time?” Sherlock asked.

“I refused to leave him here unaccompanied”, the man said stiffly. “Sorry I am to say it, but I did not put it past him to start planting evidence.”

“Did he ever go into either of the adjoining rooms?”

“No. Though I did tell him what they were.”

Sherlock smiled at that.

“What room does your brother's bedroom connect to?” he asked.

“The windowed corridor I mentioned earlier, which includes the back stairs”, our host said, “on the opposite side of which is a side-door to my own bedroom.”

“I have one other question”, Sherlock said, “then I must leave to put in place certain arrangements. Your late brother’s valet – can he be trusted?”

Our host look surprised at the question, but answered readily enough.

“I would trust Phillips with my life”, he said firmly. “He is staying on here until I can find him alternative employment, fortunately my own valet had a week's holiday, but I will not force a good servant out. I am trying to find him somewhere, and a man from a local employment agency is coming round the day after tomorrow.”

Sherlock smiled, and took him by the hand.

“Stay strong, my friend”, he said. “We shall have you out of your own dark vale before too long.”

I wondered what he had meant by that.

+~+~+

It was still only a quarter past three, but we were not to be spared a meeting with Sergeant Bartholomew, who arrived just as we were leaving. He was a tall blond fellow in his thirties; I might have termed him handsome had I not known of his character. He glared at us both when Mr. Atkinson said goodbye to us by name, so he clearly recognized us. I was glad to escape that look.

Sherlock surprised me by staying in 221B that evening, although he did send out several messages, and seemed pleased when the replies came back. We enjoyed Mrs. Harvelle’s sumptuous repast, and I was again surprised when he suggested an early night. The only downside was that he was very evidently developing a cold, and insisted that we sleep apart until it had passed as he did not wish me to get infected. But I was still tired from the exertions of our European adventures, and was glad to turn in, safe in the knowledge we were both under the same roof in England. 

All together, now. I really, really should have known better.

+~+~+

Sherlock was most definitely not a morning person. As I have said before, had I ever felt the urge to end it all, I would probably need only to have made the mistake of standing between him and his first coffee of the day. But on the morning after our trip to St. John’s Wood, he emerged two hours later than usual, and seemed, incredibly, even more dishevelled than usual. Fortunately, after several infusions of caffeine he was back to his usual self by luncheon, and the two of us set off back to “Trincomalee” around two o’clock. I was surprised, and not a little displeased, to find Sergeant Bartholomew waiting for us.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson”, he said acidly. 

To my surprise Sherlock ignored him, and turned to Mr. Atkinson. 

“I am expecting a witness to come to the house very soon”, he said. “He will be a workman, dressed most probably in overalls. Can you please ensure that whoever lets him in shows him straight to us.”

“A witness to the murder?” Mr. Atkinson asked, clearly dumbfounded.

“Not exactly”, Sherlock smiled. “But he is important. He unwittingly provided something that was used in the crime.”

The sergeant looked at him dubiously.

“Let us begin”, Sherlock said firmly. “I have to say, sergeant, that I am disappointed in your thoroughness, of which I had heard so much from my dear friend Sergeant Henriksen. You missed several clues which prove indubitably that a burglary was attempted on this property.”

The sergeant spluttered.

“Sir!” he protested.

“I presume that you checked for marks of forced entry into the house?” Sherlock asked, pointing up to the window of the room where the crime had taken place. 

“I did”, the policeman said smugly. “There were none.”

Sherlock smiled and shook his head, which only seemed to annoy the policeman more.

“A burglar would be extremely foolish to force entry through _that_ window”, he said, more than a little condescendingly. “It is on the side of the house where the servants’ entrance is, as is the corridor window along from it. Even though the man was in disguise, the fewer people who saw him, the better.”

“How the hell can you know that he was in disguise?” the policeman snorted. Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“Elementary”, he scoffed, and I detected a much harsher tone than the one he usually used to explain his reasoning at times like these. “Because Phillips, the late Mr. Ion Atkinson’s valet, lied.”

“I told you that Phillips is as honest as the day is long”, Inias Atkinson said defensively. Sherlock placed a comforting hand on his former tutor’s arm.

“I did not mean to imply that he lied _knowingly_ ”, he said, his tone soothing. “When asked if he saw any strangers outside that day, he said no. Once I had examined the case, I went back and asked him the same question in a slightly different way, strongly suspecting that it would elicit a different answer.”

“And that answer was?” the sergeant sniffed. Sherlock ignored him and pointed up the window. 

“Even with his disguise, a man entering a window during daylight hours would be likely to draw attention to himself”, Sherlock said. “The window was obviously not the means of access. Instead the man simply placed a ladder up the side of the house and clambered all the way up onto the roof.”

“And not be seen doing that?” the sergeant scoffed. “What was he; the Invisible Man?”

“In a way, yes”, Sherlock smiled.

We were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of the butler, who was followed by a man in garish plum-coloured overalls. They were emblazoned with a garish logo for the ‘North London Window-Cleaning Corporation’. Sherlock smiled at the newcomer.

“Alfred”, he said, reading the man’s name-badge. “I must thank your employer for sparing you.”

The tall man smiled, but said nothing, twisting his cap nervously.

“Please can you confirm for these gentlemen what happened at your depot last week”, Sherlock said.

“Went into work as usual last Saturday, and the place had been broken into. The only thing missing was my overalls, kept in the general store. Mr. Fraser was very good though; he let me borrow a spare set.”

“And nothing else was taken?” Sherlock asked.

“They tried to break into the office, but Fred, the local copper, came along and nearly caught the bastards. Sorry, sirs.”

Sherlock handed a coin to our guest who departed, then looked at the three of us as if that explained everything. 

“I do not get it”, I said at last.

“The burglar was not invisible _per se_ ”, Sherlock explained. “But when I asked Phillips if he had seen anyone outside _and not just a stranger_ , he said ‘only the man cleaning the windows’.”

I gasped.

“The burglar was disguised as a window-cleaner!” I exclaimed. 

“A perfect disguise”, Sherlock said. “The servants would not likely question him, and each of the brothers might assume that the other had arranged his call. Come!”

He swept back into the house, and we followed in his wake, the sergeant still looking dubious. Up the stairs, Sherlock went not to the room where the body had been found but the dead man's bedroom, where he waited patiently for Mr. Atkinson to produce a key.

“Of course, sergeant, you did check this room”, Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

The sergeant reddened somewhat.

“I did not think it relevant to my inquiries”, he muttered.

Sherlock gave him a heavy look, but said nothing. Instead he turned to our host.

“This room has been untouched since that day?” he asked.

“Certainly”, Mr. Atkinson said. “I gave strict instructions for the staff to avoid all three rooms, and I have all the keys.”

Sherlock nodded, and entered the room. It was a typical gentleman’s bedroom. Sherlock walked across to the door in the corner and opened it, gesturing for us to come and look.”

“Tell me what you see, gentlemen”, he said.

“I do not see anything”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Holmes....”

“That is your trouble”, Sherlock said sharply. “You do not see anything, yet you should see _something_.”

“Dust!” I burst out. Sherlock nodded, clearly pleased at my answer.

“This stairway to heaven has not been used for months, yet it has clearly been swept very recently”, he said. “Sergeant, if you would care to ascend, you will almost certainly find that the skylight has been forced and is still unlocked.”

The sergeant gave him a look that was a borderline glare, but went up the narrow stairs, having to bend so to do. A moment later he came down again.

“Someone's been up there, right enough”, he admitted, clearly unwillingly. “And there's a print from a small shoe by one of the chests.”

I caught him staring hopefully at our host's shoes, which were at least a size ten, and noted the subsequent disappointment in his face. I suppressed a smirk. Narrowly.

“Our burglar enters this via the skylight”, Sherlock explained. “No servant is going to walk the whole way around the house to find why the window-cleaner is not by his ladder; he could be elsewhere for any number of reasons, so the burglar has some time. He is easily able to pick the lock to the bedroom, but then makes the mistake of entering the adjoining study.”

Sherlock beckoned us all to a point near the bed, then pointed to the floor. I did not see anything at first, but then I could just make out a few grains of sand.

“The burglar clearly works or lives in or near an area where there is a sandy surface”, he said. “You will note that the sand lies between the attic door and the study door. All I can tell you about our killer is that he is approximately five foot eight inches tall, at least forty years of age, has small feet and is dark-haired.”

“Oh come on, Mr. Holmes!” the sergeant protested. “There is no way you could know all that!”

Sherlock stared at him. The man visibly quailed.

“If you had done your job _properly_ , sir, then all this inane speculation about suicide might have been averted!” he said sharply. “Behold!”

He went across to the connecting door. There was an old-fashioned hanging-curtain pulled back next to it, and he gestured us to come and look.

“Two hairs”, he said, pointing to them. “The burglar stood here, most probably listening for anyone in the next room. He must have been of the stated height for the hairs to catch at that point; my own loose hairs would catch four to five inches higher. One is dark brown or black, and the other is grey, so he was in the process of going grey, which denotes his likely age. Unfortunately Mr. Ion Atkinson must have been dozing, because the burglar entered having heard nothing.”

He span round to face the sergeant.

“I have to say, _Sergeant_ Bartholomew”, he said unpleasantly, “that I am strongly minded to speak to your superiors about what you have put this poor gentleman through over the unhappy killing of his dear brother. You work has been both shoddy and unprofessional. I think it would be best if you were to leave.”

The sergeant blushed fiercely, made his excuses and beat a hasty retreat. I waited until he was gone before turning to congratulate my friend.

“That was brilliant!” I smiled. “I do hope that I shall get to write about it soon.”

To my surprise he shook his head, and looked awkwardly at our host.

“I very much doubt it”, he said. “'Great Detective Covers Up Murder-Suicide Plot' would most probably shock even your gentle readers.”

I stared at him in shock.

“What do you mean?” I asked. Sherlock turned to his host. 

“I am so sorry”, he said. 

Mr. Atkinson hung his head. I stared between the two men. What on earth was going on?

“I should have known”, our host muttered, looking down. Then he glanced up, and my friend was smiling slightly at him. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his hand, and gestured for me to follow him away. I scuttled after him.

“What was that all about?” I demanded.

“Mr. Inias Atkinson shot his brother”, Sherlock said as we walked outside. I promptly fell over my feet.

“What?” I squawked from my undignified position on the gravelled driveway. He helped me up.

“Last night, I went back to the house and broke in myself”, Sherlock said. “I searched his brother's room, and found exactly what I had feared.”

“Which was?” I asked.

“A letter concerning his appointment with a Doctor Feldspar, in Harley Street.”

I fell silent. I knew enough of that great thoroughfare to know that the famous and renowned Doctor Kenton Feldspar only dealt with one type of patient - those suffering from a terminal illness.

“The decline would have been both drawn out and painful, and poor Ion Atkinson would have suffered for years”, Sherlock explained. “His brother could not bear that, so they came up with a solution. Mr. Ion Atkinson spent a few weeks placing his affairs in order, and then to his suicide that would be made to look like murder. He would be shot by a 'burglar', who would then flee. In reality, his brother went straight to him when he returned, shot him from across the room with his full consent, then left through the connecting door to the bedroom, which as you saw connects onto his own study and his own room. He then emerged only a few seconds later to 'find' his brother dead.”

“But why did Ion Atkinson not take his own life?” I asked. “Why drag his poor brother into this?”

“As we were told, a gun fired close up would leave tell-tale scorch marks”, Sherlock explained. “Inias was always an excellent shot, and helped run the gun club at college. It was that which alerted me to the possibility that he might be involved.”

I stared at him for a moment.

“You planted those clues”, I said slowly. “The hairs, the sand, the forced skylight, the print. The window-cleaner?”

“I helped clear up a small matter for his employer some years back”, Sherlock explained. “In my line of business, I suspected I might have need of his help in a case like this, so I extracted a promise of future aid rather than immediate cash payment, like I did with Mr. Godfreyson. Alfred is his son and one of his managers, so he was, as you say, 'in on it'.”

I chuckled.

“What is it?” my friend asked.

“Only that we keep getting murders with no murderer of late!” I smiled. “Oh for a real killer!”

I had no knowledge then just how soon that request was to be granted.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would involve a woman's intuition, a boy who was not what he seemed, and a prominent political figure.


End file.
